That in itself doesn’t sound so bad. Everyone forgets something. Locks themselves out of something.
To me this is the first sign of dementia. Or Alzheimer’s. Or something just as tragic.
I just know it.
I’m not making fun of those who have it. I have always had this feeling that this will be my path somewhere down the line. No one in my family has it, but my mom passed away at 54 so who knows what her fate would have been.
Locking myself out of my car does not bode well for my wanting to go to Paris for a week by myself, either.
I’m already nervous about the thought of taking a trip like this by myself. I am at the fantasy stage, the imagine-it-all stage. The pre-research stage. My family doesn’t know my desire — even my husband is pre-iffy. So convincing everyone that I can handle life alone in the city of Love for a week by myself is going to be a real hurdle.
I already am a fraidy cat when it comes to strangers and finding my way around new places. The thought of boarding a plane and going to a country where I don’t speak the language nor know the landscape is not just a case of turning left instead of right.
But I’m still up for it. My writing is still up for it.
I’m getting afraid my memory is following way far behind.
What if I lose my hotel key? What if I take the wrong bus and get dumped in a small French village where no one speaks English and I become the town buffoon?
I can just see this feeble old lady wandering around aimlessly saying “Parles-tu Anglais?“
I know this is overreaction at the highest level.
But when you’ve been forgetting things lately like locking the bottom lock on the door or locking your keys in the car or wondering where the scratches on your shoulder came from (the cat, probably), traveling by yourself becomes secondary.
The Paris trip thing is the least of my worries. I forget this thing or that thing now, and before I know it I’ll be forgetting to put on underwear. You know what I mean.
Fear is like a multiplication table. At the beginning, the numbers are small. Easy to remember. But as you age, the multiplication table gets bigger and bigger. You try and keep up — you study, you make notes, you talk outloud to yourself.
Yet you forget one thing and it’s back to the beginning of the multiplication table, with a few more people watching you perform.
I know I have a long way to go before the mind disappears into that sweet fog of NaNaLand. But every time I slip, every time I mess up, it makes me — and others — take notice.
I’d rather take notice of cafes in Paris that serve a mean Coq au Vin….